


Do It Again

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Addams Family References, Blood, Bottom Will Graham, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, No Refractory Period, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 03, Top Hannibal Lecter, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 06:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16697176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: "Were you jealous?" he whispers.Oh, but jealous is not the word. That implies threat, implies competition, and Hannibal needs not worry about either. Still, his nostrils flare, and there's a soft bulge in his jaw when he says;"I'll confess, darling, that I would rather your hands never touched another living thing."





	Do It Again

**Author's Note:**

> I read that "You frightened me. Do it again" quote ONE too many times...

Sometimes Will simply lies, on his side, facing out towards their window but his eyes on nothing in particular, and basks in the aftermath. At first Hannibal feared it was a manifestation of his internal guilt, his stubborn cling to the remnants of his former life, his marriage, his needle of sexuality fixed determinedly in 'hetero' and refusing to waver.

He knows better, now. Will made it very clear that his revolution, his turned back, is not a rejection. He will return to Hannibal, when he is ready, when the molten cracks have reshaped themselves once again, every time his person suit becomes a little finer, a little better-made.

There is something about this night that weighs on him heavily. Perhaps it had been what led them here – a woman, a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Alana, so much that even Will's stomach had turned. He has not forgotten her, not forgotten that her designs brought him and Hannibal to Muskrat. It saved his life, certainly, but changed his regard for her just as much and he doesn't want Hannibal to hunt her down, doesn't want to waste the time, but if she were to unwittingly stumble into their path…

Behind him, weight shifts, and Hannibal breathes out deeply. Will's nostrils flare. He can smell the blood on his hands as he curls them in the sheets, brings them up to tuck under his chin like a child trying to hide from the monster. Hannibal reaches out, smooths a hand along Will's hip in a brief touch.

"Would you like some water?" he asks. Will sweats, during hunts, after hunts. Hannibal sweats during sex. They're caked in it, and it's drying, making Will shiver.

He nods, once, knowing Hannibal's eyes are there to catch any and all movement. He sits, and observes, like a spider in the middle of his web, ready to dart forward when the fly coils itself a little too tight. The bed moves again, shifting, and Will closes his eyes to better hear the soft pad of his steps as he goes to the kitchen.

No cups in the bathroom.

Will rolls onto his back, blinks slow, up at the ceiling. He pushes the sheets, red-printed now like a child's artwork, a smear of blood in the middle from Will's back, Hannibal's hands framing; a voyeuristic, bulge-cheeked nod to the vicious physical bookend of their hunts. They fuck before, and they fuck after, but it is _between_ where they make love.

Will slides his hand out, rolls to his other side. His shoulder is bitten, heavy around the stab wound from Dolarhyde's knife, long-healed. It ekes fresh red and Will drags his nails across it, shivers and tightens his thighs. His hips are sore – Hannibal folded him, tonight, always just a little stronger, a little larger than Will. Will is cardio, Will is the muscle and strength of a working man, but Hannibal is the prowess of a hunter. He will always be a little bit faster, prone to bursts of speed, a little less hesitant than Will with knife and saw.

Hands, though, Will is savage with his hands. Hannibal is gentle in comparison.

Will shifts, rolls his hips, his tender flanks sharply aching to remind him that this, still, is not quite true. He is a canvass of purple and red, old yellows fading into new designs, suck-kisses of a sexual deviant, claw marks of an animal, bites of a predator. Will aches and aches.

His hand goes flat, feels the sheets damp and he moves forward, flat on his stomach, and presses his face against the stain. There is blood, here, and Will's sweat, and Hannibal's sweat, and Will's seed – the second round. Hannibal used his mouth the first time, sucking plasma and slick from him. His eyes, black as blood in the moonlight, were wild.

Will's breath catches. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he turns and sits as Hannibal comes to him, a glass of water cradled in his gentle-but-not-gentle fingers. Will does not smile, but he lets his eyes grow warm when he lifts them, and sees Hannibal's joy reflected. Will takes a sip, wets his tongue, and then hands it back. Hannibal sets the glass down, and when he straightens, he goes still. Will hasn’t moved to his side of the bed – he sits in the middle of it, wreathed in the stained evidence of their love and violent delights.

Hannibal has not redressed. He stands, neither ashamed nor peacocking, as assured as he has ever been. Will's eyes are greedy, taking in his husband – for he is not without marks. Will can be wild, too. His neck is clawed, and there is the beginning of a deep, dark welt forming just below his collarbone, and a second where the slope of his belly goes just a little softer.

Will swallows, and reaches out for his glass again. He holds it like wine, touching the rim to his lips, and lifts his eyes again. "Turn around," he breathes.

Hannibal lifts a brow, up a fraction, before he smiles, and turns. He shows Will the branded center of his back – Will's fingers tighten, and he recalls again what he might do if he were to meet Alana again, for while she did not wield the branding iron, she certainly facilitated its use.

Around the brand, flared out like wings of a raven, are lines from Will's hands. Will's claws. The backs of his thighs, too, when he fucks Will deeply, folded and mounted, and Will can only dig his nails in and hold on, crying out desperately for his husband, his lover, his mate – too many labels and none of them quite fit.

Except _his_.

His eyes greedily take in the entry wound, the grey-purple knot of scar tissue that tore Hannibal's intestines in the perfect way that he had needed help with eating, with relieving himself, and a lot of other things they took for granted before and take for granted, again, now. Three years in and Hannibal still gets stiff and Will touches his lower back, rubs muscle relaxants and massages the tension around his spine and Hannibal does the same for his shoulders, his neck, the hip that was pulverized within the ocean and on the cliffs. Will ever-prowls, now, not wanting to strain the joint.

"Look at me," he rasps, and Hannibal obeys, a delicate flush on his fine cheeks that he always gets when Will studies him. Will used to veer and flinch from eye contact, knowing not that no one saw him, but those who did simply didn't see him correctly. He had learned to wear mannerisms and Asperger's like a shield and now he wears shadows as a cloak – he does not avoid, but provides blatant misdirect, sleight of hand. Draws the eye to his neck while his knife goes for the gut.

He wets his tongue again, lapping at the cool water, and then presses his lips together, rotates his wrist so the glass touches his scarred cheek, and observes, _sees_ , with low-lidded eyes. For Hannibal has never been shy about what he displays, it is simply the things he chooses to show that people always saw.

With Will, he is bare, he is malevolence and cool disregard, wrath and gluttony, feast and famine.

"Did you notice too?" Will asks, and sets his glass down. Hannibal is close enough to touch, and touch he wants to, but touch he does not. His hands run the risk of growing greedy, ravenous – his eyes drink their fill, chin lifted to show Hannibal what he's done to Will's neck; claws and teeth and plush lips pulled back to mark and tear.

Hannibal tilts his head, and offers no answer.

"Same jaw," Will breathes, and slides his thumb along his own, for he and Alana share certain physical similarities. He idly considers that Hannibal has a type for his lovers, but he knows too little of the data to make an assumption. It's biased, the sample too small. "Same eyes. Same…critical manner."

At that, Hannibal smiles.

"You chose her, my love," he says. Will presses his lips together, thinks of hers, parted in a scream. Some chivalrous, red-blooded-male part of him balks at the idea of slaughtering a woman, leftover from his loving wife's loyalty and the gentle sweetness of Alana's kiss, the memory of Margot's pale thighs, the motherly love extended to him from Bella Crawford and Beverly's treasured friendship.

It is a small part, and easily pushed away like a buzzing fly.

He hums, and says, "You knew I would." His eyes lift, from memory irrelevant to the here, to the now. They slide, past hips, past chest, to meet his monster's dark, tender gaze. "The second you saw her, you knew I would see her. That I would act."

"In your righteousness, I am somewhat able to predict you," Hannibal concedes. Will supposes that is fair – they've had a long, long time to learn each other, bone to skin now. Perhaps deeper, where the soul lies. They are both intimately aware of each piece of sinew, each tendon, each artery a human body holds, and Will still has yet to figure out where the soul is meant to sit.

Will smiles, off-kilter, his cheeks dimpling. His right one dips in twice; flesh and scar. He leans back on the bed, to his elbows, shows Hannibal the long line of himself, only barely clinging to modesty with a strip of Rorschach-red sheets pooled in his lap.

"You don't like that I recall her so easily," he whispers. Hannibal has gravitated to him, the iron in his chest pulled to the rotating, molten core in Will. Their compass points change, their stars align. Hannibal's hand reaches out, grazes Will's knee with fingers so reverent they almost hurt. "You don't like that I used my hands."

He lifts one, showing the stain, the fine yellowish rise of his fingerprint, the crease of lighter pink where his knuckles have curled, where the blood has smeared. Around his nails, it looks brown. In the darkness, his palms are black.

"Were you jealous?" he whispers.

Oh, but jealous is not the word. That implies threat, implies competition, and Hannibal needs not worry about either. Still, his nostrils flare, and there's a soft bulge in his jaw when he says;

"I'll confess, darling, that I would rather your hands never touched another living thing."

Will's fingers curl. He sucks in a breath, sits up, now that Hannibal has been lured by the spread of his thighs and the whip in his tongue. He flattens his hands on Hannibal's hips, pleased to see his husband responding already to the proximity of his mouth.

He leans in, and kisses, parts his jaws and sucks soft skin between his teeth, just above the hipbone. Hannibal's expression slackens, pure bliss, and his hand cradles in Will's hair and tightens at his nape. His body curves, wishing to give Will more – more flesh, more blood, more ecstasy.

"Last night," Will whispers, when there is another mark and his lips are free. Hannibal pets him, breathing hard, shining in the dawn-light. "You were unhinged."

Hannibal's lashes flutter. He looks at Will, spears him with fever. His fingers cup, curl, touch Will's neck like a glass of wine and Will bites his lower lip, lifts his chin and moans when Hannibal leans down and kisses him. Hannibal's other hand flattens to the sheets by his hip, knuckles white and tense, and Will sucks in a breath as Hannibal tugs on his hair but chases, keeping Will pinned in his own tides as he lays Will out on the bed.

"You were like some desperate, howling demon," Will says. His hands trace up, measure the flex of Hannibal's ribs, up to his shoulders, and flatten along the marks of his own love. Hannibal growls, showing Will the monster he is, his bare thighs touched tight to Will's and Will's legs spread, he arches up.

Hannibal is sweating again, too warm, burning because killers burn. They burn and incense and _rage_ and Will is the ocean, will desperately swallow all his heat, all his wrath, and use the smoke to blind ships and devour sailors.

"You frightened me," Will breathes. Though it was not fear – fear is something prey animals feel. He knows, now, that Hannibal could not bear to see him truly afraid. But anxiety, trepidation, the way Will had looked at him when Hannibal's hands went around his neck – that is something entirely different.

As if reading his thoughts, Hannibal slides his hand to cover Will's throat. He fits there perfectly, strong fingers and knuckles tight to the underside of his chin and Will gasps, arching again, his hands wrapped around Hannibal's wrist like he's struggling to pull away. This is how Will killed that woman, hands around her throat while her cartilage gave, her cheeks turned purple and lips blue, her eyes growing red where they should be white.

Hannibal kisses him, with a tenderness his hand doesn't promise, and meets Will's eyes. Tilts, noses brushing, and says, "Did you like being frightened, my love?"

Will swallows, and adores the pressure of Hannibal's palm. "Do it again."

Hannibal doesn't hesitate – like a dog being let off the leash, he surges into motion, ready. Will holds his muzzle, holds his chains, and when he lets them loose, lets Hannibal wild, _oh_ , is it beautiful. He hauls Will up by the neck, turns him and plants him against the pillows which bear similar dark stains. The mattress, damp, clings to Will's back and Will shivers, desperately seeking, lets go of Hannibal's arm and reaches for him with a wanton noise.

He pushes between Will's thighs, his free hand behind one knee, pushing him up, and Will wraps his fingers around the back of his knee, watches with wide eyes as Hannibal ducks his shoulder beneath, keeping him pinned. His hand around Will's neck flexes, tightens, and Will gasps, and groans, head thrown back and eyes closing.

Hannibal snarls, looms over him, and Will only has a second to register before Hannibal is pushing into him, hard penetration to yielding flesh. It aches, it stings, but Will wants it and he _wants_ it. Hannibal refuses, nowadays, to finish anywhere that isn't inside Will, and his seed lingers, leftover lube slicks the way – and, of course, blood.

His thighs rub harshly to the welts from his teeth, where he'd bitten and licked Will open, drank down the sweat and the blood of him and used it to lay claim. There is something visceral, something utterly satisfying, about tasting your kill on your lover's tongue.

Hannibal fucks in, no hesitation, as easily as he'd gut a man or slit a pig's throat. Will's body catches up, it always does, but screams in particular attention when Hannibal lets go of his neck and replaces the touch with his mouth, sucking over the imprint his thumb left behind. Will arches, breathing raggedly, desperately, his hands carding through Hannibal's sweaty hair as Hannibal fucks into him. He uses Will's body with single-minded intent – their joining here is to sate a physical urge, just as killing sates another, and Will knows, he knows, that if the needle of his sexuality had never wavered, Hannibal would have been just as content to call him 'love' and not 'lover'.

But this blurs everything. Killing, mating, even the dirty-rough implication of legacy bleeds together. He thinks of people whispering to each other, looking over their shoulders, eyes peeled and spines cold from the threat of their hunger. Thinks of children raised on those stories – children with Hannibal's eyes, his smile. Thinks that if he were female, mounted so savagely by his mate, he would have given Hannibal that long ago.

He makes a noise, something wanton and sweet, and Hannibal pulls his mouth away, cups his face and kisses him and the angle forces Will to bend further, one leg held tight by Hannibal's shoulder, his knee next to their cheeks – the other wrapped high on Hannibal's back, heel dug to his spine. It's brazen, it's whorish like the crack and split of ribs to bare the beating heart.

He clings to Hannibal, kisses, kisses again.

"Tell me you love me," he demands, though it's weak.

Hannibal growls, offended in a way Will can only, now, still do – to imply Hannibal does not love him, to even suggest it, is a slight Hannibal cannot forgive. His body bears that punishment – claws in his hips, bruises on his flanks, the stretch of smeared blood on his neck and the ache when he swallows.

"With everything I am," comes the reply, when Hannibal's voice is no longer edged with teeth. Still, he punctuates the words with a bite, bookends them with savage thrusts of his hips that Will feels in the stutter of his heart. He moans, bares his neck, lets Hannibal suck and kiss the flesh as the offering it is. "And you, mylimasis? Do you love me?"

" _Yes_ ," Will groans, and hauls Hannibal up by his hair, tightens his thighs and shoves, forcing Hannibal back. Hannibal growls at him, eyes shining darkly, and Will tries to move but Hannibal pins him down, rolls him to his stomach, puts his forearm on the back of Will's neck like he might restrain a wild dog and forces his cock back in and -.

 _This_. This is what Will wanted. The fierce, unequivocal reminder of Hannibal's wrath, his intolerance to the idea that Will would stray, or let himself be taken. They are each other, orbit and magnetism and starlight.

Hannibal bites down on Will's shoulder, pierces his flesh around the exit wound of Jack's bullet and Will cries out, bows his head, lifts to his elbows and knees and lets his lover, his mate, take what he wants. The bruises and bites on his ass and the backs of his thighs sting terribly – they are bleeding, he thinks, and he turns his head and sees his inner thighs stained pink. Hannibal's, too.

Below him, the sheets are wet, drowning in them just as they drown in their own air. Will cannot breathe, cannot hear his heart, can only register the loud collide of their flesh, Hannibal's snarls, can only taste water and salt on his tongue as Hannibal mounts him.

Then, Hannibal slides a hand forward, wraps tight around Will's throat and forces him up. His spine bows down, he lifts to his hands and gasps, staring at the ceiling as Hannibal cradles him, his other arm wrapped around Will's chest and all his weight is there, heavy, hot, and Will whimpers when lips touch his ear.

Hannibal fucks in, and goes still, grunting, hand sting-tight around Will's neck as he comes. Will flinches, the force of it making his thighs shake, his fingers clench, and Hannibal gives him air again, fist in Will's hair and letting his neck sag, head bowed. His arm at Will's chest slides down, grips Will's leaking cock.

Will shakes his head, whines; "Need to look at you."

Hannibal is smiling – the air changes when he does, shows gold and bronze and colors of kings. He pulls out and Will shakes, slick with seed, with blood, with sweat. Hannibal guides him to his belly and pushes his bitten shoulder, so he's lying on his side and Hannibal settles in front of him, facing him.

His hand returns to Will's cock and Will sucks in a breath, grits his teeth, inhale deep and yet sharp, like a bite. He puts his teeth on each other's edge and shows Hannibal all of them.

Hannibal smiles again, cups Will's cheek tenderly and sighs through his nose. "You are beautiful," he whispers. Will's chest is tight, hot, fit to burst and his gut clenches, body edged forward by the expert pull of Hannibal's hand, the smooth flex of his wrist and thumb as it swipes over Will's slit. "I could visit any gallery in the world, take in every natural view and listen to any song, and you would surpass all of it."

Will doesn't have it in him to blush. There's too much blood between his legs to spare it.

His lashes flutter, though, and he reaches, digs nails, tugs himself closer to his lover's chest and shivers as Hannibal gives his thigh, lets Will rut into the tightness of Hannibal's hand, the ring of it, into the pressure of his muscle. He ruts animal-like, clawing at Hannibal's hip, teeth at his throat.

"Do you claim me as your own creation, Hannibal?" he asks.

Hannibal smiles, nuzzles, kisses quick and clinging to Will's cheek. "Yes."

"That is why you think me most beautiful," Will says, breathes. His rhythm stutters and Hannibal takes over, arm flexing, and Will clenches his eyes shut, rolls, presses his thighs together to feel the wet of them and thinks; "That is why you think I surpass all else. It satisfies your ego, nothing more."

Hannibal huffs, a gentle laugh, but he lets go of Will's cock and Will whines, snaps his teeth together, only to gasp as Hannibal fists a hand in his hair and hauls him back, pushes him prone and hapless, Hannibal's weight over him, covering him.

"Your existence does not satisfy my ego," Hannibal says, darkly pleased, devastatingly proud. "What I find satisfying is instances of you, like this." His thigh presses, and Will whimpers, swallowing harshly. His throat aches. "Feeling your craving for me. Feeling your flesh open, part for me." He leans down, licks Will's neck, bites; "Knowing your mind is so eager to do the same."

Will moans, digs his nails into Hannibal's hips, ruts up. He's close, he needs, he _needs_ -.

Hannibal bites, severing the skin of Will's throat. Blood rushes out, untainted, unspoiled, and Will comes with parted lips and closed eyes, utterly soundless. Hannibal drinks from him, laps kitten-like, wets his tongue and his lips and then kisses Will, drawing breath from his lungs, strength stretched thin between his bones until it gives, like all of Will gives, and he sags, pliant, beneath his monster.

"Oh, Will," Hannibal whispers, and lifts his dirty hand. Will's seed is smeared on his fingers and he sucks the pad of his thumb into his mouth, before he slides the rest between Will's parted, gasping lips. He licks, tongue sliding thick between middle finger and ring, suckling, thirsty.

He pulls his fingers out and Will smiles. He presses close and they kiss, Hannibal's dirty hand sliding into his hair, petting, taking, as he does with Will's body so often. His cavalier control makes Will purr, makes him arch, satisfaction forgotten in the wake of Hannibal's hunger.

Hannibal's body rolls, grinds, seeking pressure and friction though it is too soon for them to go again. Will twitches beside him, and does not turn away.

"I can't get enough of you," he whispers, confession-quiet, proud of the flash of visceral pleasure in Hannibal's eyes. It is codependency, dangerous for their natures, and it is love – even more violent, even more chaotic and cancerous. "I hunger for you, even now."

"Good," Hannibal says. He brushes gentle knuckles down Will's cheek, cups his throat, and it is bruised and tender and Will tilts his head, offers his neck, for Hannibal's mouth. It is an offer graciously accepted as Hannibal leans in, leans down, and kisses over his thrumming pulse, caged-bird-flutter, aching. "Devour me."

Will smiles, and parts his teeth, fits them to Hannibal's shoulder and bites. Sweat coats his tongue, blood on his lips, blood between his thighs. He flushes, warm and sated, and Hannibal embraces him with tight and tender possessiveness, savage adoration. He moves atop Will, flattens him, pins him, and Will moans with delight.

"I could find her for us, if you desired," Hannibal breathes. Will doesn't need to know who he's talking about. His fingers flex, claw, drag upwards from hip to chest, flatten and spread wide over Hannibal's heartbeat. There is wildness, there, a legacy waiting to be unleashed. The fields and farms would weep and drink blood for days.

He shakes his head, for he is firm on this; "No," he replies. "She will die, looking over her shoulder, fearing our shadows. But she will die."

Hannibal pulls back, and their foreheads rest together.

He smiles. "As you wish it, beloved," he says. Will shivers, for he is sure no man has ever uttered the word with such reverence as Hannibal, and never will. "I seek only to satisfy you."

Will's smile is wide, and he touches the blush on Hannibal's cheeks with both hands, brings him down to a kiss that is sweet, lacking teeth, but not lacking passion. Never that – Hannibal burns for him and Will swallows, ocean-skies, thirst of eons. He spreads his legs and lets Hannibal fall between them, cradles him in his thighs, in his heart, and his body aches with tender, specific soreness.

Hannibal sucks in a breath, kisses Will's jaw, kisses his neck. Down, further, his bitten chest, his scarred stomach. He lingers there, hands flat, and Will pushes his flesh into his lover's mouth, shivers when Hannibal resumes his trail, plants pink bites and red bruises, to his stomach, his hips, his thighs.

He teeth part and he licks the clinging mess on Will's cock and Will whines, tensing, tugging, hands in Hannibal's hair.

"Please," he breathes, needing, needing -.

Hannibal swallows him down, cheeks hollowed, and Will can't spare the blood to fill, too soon, too sensitive, but Hannibal's mouth is warm and wet and Will lets him suck, lets him drink. His fingers slide between Will's legs, touch puffy and tender muscle, push in and up and Will gasps.

Hannibal's eyes are on him, dark, blister-hot, just as Will is hot for him, clamping down around fingers, thrusting up into his mouth. Hannibal's tongue curls, thick and wet, and Will moans weakly and shakes like he's going into shock.

"Hannibal," he growls, ragged, raw, a slave for his master's hunger.

Hannibal pulls off, pulls out, and parts Will's legs with large, firm hands. He slides in close, just hard enough to penetrate, to force his way in and Will aches, filled. "Again?" he whispers, but he knows the answer, knows that Hannibal sweats and shakes for him only here. Hannibal's gaze is ravenous, fanged, and he bares his neck for Hannibal's hand.

He is wet, fertile, soaked and ready. Ready to be planted, and sown, and reaped. He surges up and kisses, lets Hannibal lift him to his lap, strong arms at Will's back, Will's hands on the bed to keep him upright and help the roll of his hips as he seeks.

There is new blood on the bed.

Hannibal stiffens for him, filling further, hot and hard and Will moans weakly, throws his head back, ecstatic and wild. His shaking ribs catch on his inhale, his trembling thighs submit to Hannibal's will, to his will, and Hannibal snarls, shows his teeth.

"Please," he moans, desperate, gagging, and Hannibal plants him to the bed and dedicates his entire being to giving Will exactly what he wants.

They do not leave their bed until midday, and the sheets are red, a deep, dark bloom of ruined bones and shed blood, of life and love and savage dominion.

Will drinks, finishes his water, and lies prone on the bed when Hannibal lifts his head and cups his cheek.

He smiles, and Hannibal smiles, and this is what they are; the end and the beginning, life and death, wrath and famine and war and gluttony. He turns into his mate and wishes time would stand still.

"I adore you, Will," Hannibal breathes. He cannot stay silent when Will touches him like this. Will's seed has painted his belly, Will's teeth have marred his neck, and he is beautiful.

Will smiles, and sighs. It is, he thinks, a good word: adoration. Almost as fitting as 'mine'.

He lifts his gaze, meets Hannibal's eyes, and kisses him, pouring his love back in gold filigree. Hannibal clings to him, embraces him, and Will sighs again, petting his hair back from his face. "I know," he replies, and Hannibal smiles. He need not say it back, he knows – he proves it by being here, by sharing all parts of himself with Hannibal and taking all Hannibal gives him in return.

The day is bright, and promises to be warm.

"Kiss me," he says, and Hannibal, as he does with all things, does so eagerly, happily, content to touch and taste and Will arches for him, moans for him, and clings back. Will pulls away with bruised lips and bloodied teeth.

He breathes, and says, "Shall we?"

Hannibal's smile is radiant, and he glows with joy, rising from their bed and taking Will to his feet by his hands. There is, after all, the final piece to prepare; their meal. They have eaten of each other, and now they must feed from their shared conquest.

He kisses Will's knuckles, and gestures to the door. "After you."

Will smiles, and goes. Hannibal follows.


End file.
